


Holding onto hope

by TheSweetestThing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the babe is born a few hours later amid a torrent of pain and sweat and shrieks, it is clear from the olive cast of its skin and the thick coating of dark hair on its forehead that this babe is most definitely not a Lannister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding onto hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silberias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/gifts).



> Quick little one-shot from a prompt Silberias gave me where Sansa leaves Kings Landing with her and Oberyn's child to Braavos where she runs into Arya before Oberyn returns :)

Somewhere in the Red Keep, a woman was screaming.

One would expect a noble birth to be plentiful busy, a flurry of wild activity as midwives and servants scurried around corners, head down and feet fast to serve to the young Lady Lannister. Sansa is not deceived, she knows their ill made preparations for the birth only serve to benefit the House of Lannister. It will be a miracle if she escapes the birth alive and her midwife doesn’t let her slip quietly and unceremoniously away as many a woman does in the aftermath. Pain, there is so much pain, clawing and raking at Sansa’s belly as she twists and contorts on the bed.

“Not long now.” Her midwife says brusquely, turning the folds of her nightgown up to examine her. “And soon there’ll be a new Lannister. The first born of the new century.”

Her smile is too wide to possibly be kind, exposing sore red gums and holes where her teeth should be, and Sansa closes her eyes to avoid the unsettling image.

When the babe is born a few hours later amid a torrent of pain and sweat and shrieks, it is clear from the olive cast of its skin and the thick coating of dark hair on its forehead that this babe is most definitely not a Lannister.

* * *

“Congratulations.” Tywin’s voice is chilling, and Tyrion dare not meet his Father’s gaze as he slowly walks across the room to sit opposite him. Tywin takes a sip of wine and places the goblet down on the desk with precision.

“I shall pass on your heartfelt courtesies.” Tyrion says drolly, though more than a pinch of acid tinges his tone. “Sansa will be pleased.”

He detests that the girl he married sought pleasure elsewhere, but Tyrion had planned from the beginning to pass the child off as his own and give him the name Lannister. She would truly love him then, he was sure. When they went to bed, Sansa shifting uncomfortably beside him as her belly grew, he would lie awake thinking of their future. After giving birth to another’s child she would surely have no objection to lie with him, the cuckolded husband who gallantly supported her lie. He had assured himself throughout the pregnancy that the child would look singularly Tully like its Mother. The Gods like to mock him, and Tyrion sighs bitterly and pours himself a large cup of wine.

“She shan’t be so pleased soon.” Tywin sniffs, lip curled with disgust. 

“What do you suggest we do? She is my wife, the Lady of the North if you recall.”

“We wipe our hands of her. She is a whore, it is clear to see, so why not let her be one? Send her to Braavos and let the rabble have her.”

“She is a Stark-”

“Lannister!” Tywin growls, eyes flashing. “And she has brought shame to our house! Do you know how many people are talking about this? That ill bred Dornish bastard and its whore of a Mother. You disgust me Tyrion. If you had only done your duty to this house then the babe would have been yours though I am not surprised you have let us down again, you always seem to find a way. I truly thought this might have been your making. Lord of the North…” Tywin’s jaw clenches with fury. “After Tysha, I thought you would have grown. I realise my mistake now. A dwarf never learns, nor grows.”

“So you would submit her to a dozen rapes like Tysha?”

“Don’t be ignorant, she’s a highborn – for now at least. We’ll merely exile her to Braavos. She has drawn her own name through the mud, soiled her own reputation. The Bolton’s rule the North now, her Stark name means nothing. She will disappear and trade her body and die in a few years’ time nameless, penniless and forgotten.”

* * *

“Exile?” Sansa clutches Harlon closer to her.

She is pleased her voice does not tremble. She’s wanted nothing more than to leave Kings Landing since the moment her Father died, and now she’s finally going home. She’s named her child Harlon after all, for an old Stark King who defeated the rebellious House Bolton centuries ago. Sansa is certain history repeats itself, and if it does not she will surely make it. For her son- she shifts him in her arms, a twinge of pain between her thighs. Her son will be a Stark of Winterfell, she has never been more sure of anything. Is he not a Prince of two lands now? 

“Yes. Our marriage will be annulled and you shall be shipped into exile.”

Sansa supposes she should give her apologies, but the prospect of being Tyrion’s wife, being Lady Lannister no longer makes her heart soar. Only – shipped? Surely if she was off back North, back home, she would merely take the Kingsroad? She’d have to endure the Bolton’s ruling the North for her, but when her son is older she can claim it. Perhaps White Harbor then... it must be. Lord Manderly had always been firm friends with her Father, one of his own sons had died at the Red Wedding, surely he will grant her soldiers to help take back her home. 

"You needn't fear, there is much and more to do in Braavos you will see. You will not find yourself bored in the slightest.”

“Braavos?” Sansa falters. She is still sickly pale from the birth, lips cry and cracked, lank red hair tied in a loose plait splayed over one shoulder. Her son’s hand opens and closes like a flower petal as he tugs at a loose strand, a small comfort for his strained Mother.

Tyrion’s gaze is steady, unrepentant. He’ll not help her avoid her fate any longer, and why should he? Why should he even give her this small kindness, the knowledge of knowing where she would dock when she left King’s Landing? She had betrayed him in the worst way a wife might, but as she feels her child stir in her arms she cannot say she regrets it. Oberyn had provided her only laughter and lightness in her life since the death of her Father, and many seek comfort in others going through similiar situations do they not? Shared grief, where they would lament their dead siblings and curse the Lannister's and laugh as they kissed each other, moaned as their emotions wreaked havoc on their joined bodies. It had been a whisper of a thing, fragile and precious and hidden from view, with only Tyrion noticing one day when a Prince slipped from the bedchambers his lady wife recided in. It had been wonderful while it lasted, the days melding into nights where she basked in the whole of him, his words, his lips, his soul, but he'd left when Joffrey married and now... 

What will she do? Where will she go? She knows nobody in Braavos, not one soul…

It makes no matter. She is a Stark, she can be strong. Harlon is all she has left now, and she will never fail him, not while there's still breath in her body. 

“Very well.” She stiffens her spine and meets his cool glare. “I shall go to Braavos.”

* * *

She is bundled onto the next ship, still frail and sore as she holds her son in her arms. The ends of her hair flutter in the breeze, the autumn air bringing a chill deep within her bones and she shudders.

“I wish you a safe journey.”

Sansa appreciates the lie, and she murmurs a thank you, nuzzling her son’s satin cheek against hers. She is so cold, quivering and shivering in the early morning mist. She’s a waifish thing, still deathly pale, and she wonders if Tyrion even expects her to survive the boat journey.

“Tell me one thing before you go.” Tyrion rests his arm on her wrist and Sansa looks down her nose at him, the fur around her neck tickling her chin as she huddles further into the warmth of her threadbare cloak.

“Was it him?”

She nods, a quick bob of the head. “Who else?”

A soft smile dances on her lips, and a sparkle grows in her dull eyes. Just the mere mention of him raises her spirits, and Tyrion steps back with a flat mouth still jealous of the Dornish Prince who had captured her heart and stolen her body from him.

“Thank you, my Lord.” Sansa says as she adjusts her son in her arms. She coos at him lovingly as he gurgles, one slender finger tracing his cheek before she turns to look at her short-lived husband. “You were prepared to raise him as your own.”

She frowns briefly at the thought of her son being raised a Lannister, but it would have been to protect her own discretions and wrongdoings no matter how much she thought her affair with Oberyn was right. 

Tyrion shrugs, mouth twisted sourly. “It would have been as much a disgrace to me, if not more Lady Sansa.”

“Well,” Sansa says with a sigh, leather boots ringing on the wooden plank as she steps aboard the ship, gentle wrist upturned to clasp the nearest crewmember’s assisting hand. “I thank you all the same.”

Then she is gone, disappearing under deck with a flash of auburn hair glinting as it catches sunlight.

* * *

Braavos smells most dreadfully of fish.

Sansa crinkles her nose as she steps onto the cobbles. It’s disorienting after spending so long adrift in the ocean, bobbing and swaying, and she can’t stand straight for a good few seconds. It’s a lively port, bustling men and women calling out for passer-by’s to buy clams and cockles, mummers performing in the nooks and crannies of slick alleys, mummers begging with skeletal hands clawing at the hems of skirts and Sansa presses Harlon closer to her worriedly. Where does she even begin?

She stands for a while uncertainly, watching the world go on without her before realising she needs to step into the fray if she is to provide for her son. Her darling son, who is the only remnant she has left of the Dornish Prince who had loved her and left her. Her only _family_ left, and she swallows thickly, blinking back tears as she kisses Harlon on his lips. He gazes up at her, long eyelashes brushing his chubby cheeks and she is ever grateful that he was born hale and healthy, red cheeked and bright-eyed always.

She was greatful the voyage had been a long one, providing ample time to recover. She laid for days in the dark cabins under deck, curled up with her son as she slept and slept. She is young, the strain of birth had ailed her considerably, and she is blessed by the Gods to have survived. She has their favour now, having for so long been without it... It is her son, she is sure. He is her own personal sun, always watching her with a deep intensity in his dark eyes, as if concerned for her already. Protecting her already, and he cries when she cries and smiles when she smiles and he is the brightest jewel in the world, comparable to none. 

She carries him in the crook of her shoulder, and he peeks out and watches the world around them, drool wetting her dress as she picks her way around beggers and traders and all manner of people. She knows nothing of Braavos, not one word of Braavosi, and the people around her rarely speak Westrosi. She can recognise the lilting tones of High Valyrian but aside from that she is quite alone, and she is swept along in the currents down narrow alleys and round corners.

"Where shall we go first hmm?" Sansa asks her son, eyes gazing into his. His eyes are just like his Father's, and she lowers him from her shoulder to rest her chin atop his head already thick with hair.

"Shall we try... the Iron Bank? Get lots of pennies from your Father, would you like that?" She bounces him up and down, knowing full well an audience with the Iron Bank would not go well by any means. They'd never agree to loan money to a scandalized daughter of a traitor. Likewise, the palace she could see in the distance would be simply unacceptable. She'd need to rely on her own wits then... 

"What am I good at Harlon?" She sighs mournfully, slipping in a puddle of water. She trips unsteadily, and tears well in her eyes for she is tired and hungry and has nowhere to go.

"I'm good at convincing people aren't I?" She pulls her eyebrows together in determination. "I always talked prettily to King Joffrey, you know. I made him save Ser Dontos's life, and stopped him teasing his brother."

Harlon shows his approval with a sneeze and she giggles despite her low mood, pressing a kiss onto his snub nose. After a while her steps begin to feel lighter, more confident, and driven by the ache in her belly and the thought of a safe place to sleep she boldly collects all her manners and dignity and sweeps into the first shop she sees to ask if they have any spare jobs that needed doing. She can sew, and she can write all her letters. She is shaky with sums but she is a quick learner, Septa Mordane always said so. She knows not most languages, but she knows history like the back of her hand and she can play the harp and sing beautifully. 

By the seventh rejection her hope has begun to flicker, and by the fifteenth diminished entirely. Harlon's been crying for the past ten minutes and she presses against a wall and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her fingers shake as they try to contain her son, wailing and striking out in hunger. Doesn't he know that she's hungry too? Her head pounds and her legs quake and she's  _trying-_

"Are ye a whore?"

Sansa opens her eyes and squints at the woman before her. She holds a no-nonesense expression on her weathered face, an appraising look in her green eyes. 

"It depends who you ask." Sansa chokes on bitter laughter, trying futiely to stop Harlon's screams.

The woman shrugs. "Good enough. C'mon, the little un's starved." 

"I didn't want to feed him on the street." Sansa says meekly, fingers still tight on the blanket draped around her son.

She watches with a guarded expression for she wants to go with this woman who gestures for her to follow behind her, but she knows naught of her at all... but she wants to help her son, and Sansa can't afford to not go with her and miss the chance of a hot meal and warm bed.

Even if it is a brothel.

"Where else are ya gonna go love?" 

Sansa gives in with a nod, pushing herself off the wall to follow her saviour. 

* * *

When she is home in Winterfell, when her son claims the North in her name she will repay all the kindness Munda has given her. Her and her daughter Missi both, who make sure she is warm and filled with food, who help care for Harlon as if he were their own. She tells them her son is a Prince, and Munda and Missi exchanges looks over their pea soup and say not a word to refute it. Clearly they thought her delusional, or at the worst a dreamer stuck in make believe but Sansa knows better.

When she brings up the talents that others had turned away, Munda finds a way to make it work, and soon dozens flock to hear the titian haired beauty strum haunting melodies on a harp, her singing rousing enough for the men to pleasure themselves with the workers sprawled nearby. Profits rise as word spreads, and Sansa teaches the girls themselves how to play, how to write letters. 

Harlon grows, and soon he's able to crawl across the floor on his knees, tugging at the edge of furniture in an attempt to stand, and Sansa spends half her time chasing after him and swooping him into her arms to plaster him with kisses for he was growing too fast. She sends a letter to Oberyn telling him of her trials, where she was and how she'd ended up there. She expects no reply, and she misses the scent of him, the feel of his breath on her neck, the way he stroked her hair and kissed her lips and promised he loved her, promised he would never leave her, promised revenge. He had loved her but then left her, and she hopes he still has revenge in mind for their sons sake. 

One brisk morning Sansa wanders around the docks with her face down to stop the icy wind blowing in from the sea leeching the cold from her. She has a list of errands to do, and she's in a hurry to hug her boy again, and she trips over the tiny girl shouting to buy clams and cockles.

"My apologies." Sansa cannot apologise enough as she stacks the clams up and throws them back into the cart the girl has turned upright again. "I was moving too fast I did not see, I have a lot on my mind-"

"Sansa?" A quiver of a word, a word that was her name, her name that was spoken in a familiar tone, and the tone-

Sansa stills, not wanting to look up in fear it was all in her head. Her hand digs into one of the clams she still holds, and she squeezes her eyes shut.

"Arya." 

At the sound of her sister's sob Sansa's eyes open again, just in time to be bowled over backwards by her skinny sisters' arms around hers. Sansa gasps for breath, tears springing to her own eyes, and they sit for a long time together sobbing, lost for words. 

* * *

It takes time explaining; both of their stories do, and by the end Sansa is not sure who has had it worse, or most exciting. Not that it matters, for Sansa can barely believe her sister sits opposite her sipping hot milk and shooting glances at her nephew. Of all the places Tywin could have sent her, of all the places Arya could have journeyed, of all the times and places they could have missed each other...

They talk until their throats ache, and Sansa grips Arya's hand tight enough to leave bruises and Arya doesn't pull away. They cry again that night, curled up together, the brine scent of her sister's hair sticking up Sansa's nose. There are akward gaps and lulls where their adventures grow dark, and they don't prod. They have plenty of time now.

"We'll get it back." Sansa whispers to her sister, stroking her hair. Still as mussed as ever, and she smoothes it down protectively.

"I'm not a child Sansa." Arya mutters fiercely, their content fraying at the edges. Before Sansa would have flung an insult her way, or said something back even more rude and angry. Now she merely hums softly, sorting out the knots in her hair. 

"I know. I don't think anyone is anymore." 

"And we will get Winterfell back." Arya's eyes glimmer as cold as ice despite the warmth of the room, the amber gold hues awash on their skin.

"We will."

There is no question about it, now.

"Harlon will be a good King."

"Do you think?"

"Sansa he has the _Red Viper_ as his Father and  _you_ as his Mother. He'll be so uptight and-"

Sansa elbows her and they laugh softly in the waning night, eyes thick with sleep but unwilling to close them lest the other fade away into a dream never to be seen again.  

* * *

They settle into a strange sort of routine. Arya slips away for days on an end and comes back with a fiercely keen look behind her grey eyes, while Sansa plays the harp and cares for Harlon and waits for a reply from her lover. 

Sansa is plucking away at the strings of her instrument to a smiling Harlon sat at her feet when she feels her back crawl with unease, fingers skittering and slipping as she plays. She refuses to look up, concentrating on finishing before she dare lift her gaze to the crowd. The thundering claps from the small ring of men that numbered no more then eight only made her nerves more frayed and she bundles Harlon into her arms as her audience drifted to girls ready and waiting. 

She almost misses him in the corner. Half hidden by shadows, lean and lithe body pressed against the wall. She stands motionless, taking in the proud lilt of his mouth, the twinkle in his eyes and the concern in his creased brow before she gently places Harlon on the floor and jumps forward to launch herself into his arms. 

"Oberyn." She breathes, choking on laughter - or is it sobs that make her gasp for breath? "Oh Oberyn, oh you came."

"You put on quite the show." 

She hasn't heard his voice in so  _long,_ the wry drawn-out tones making her tremble and she gazes up at him lovingly, fingers laced with his, pressed tight in between them. She can feel his heart beating in his chest, feel the warmth of his fingers clutching hers and she wants to swoon into his arms and have him kiss her awake for surely she must be dreaming - he wouldn't come, he was a Prince, she had sent him them letters only to inform him of their sons whereabouts should he wish to see him-

"And of course I came. You were in trouble." He frowns, velvet lips turning downwards as he threads his hands through her hair. "A brothel in Braavos, this can't do."

"I had nowhere else to go."

"Nonsense. You have the whole of Dorne for your pleasure. You can stay in Sunspear with me." His face softens, eyes glowing with adoration as he looks down at their child, gripping to Sansa's skirts. "My son can meet his sisters."

Pride laces his tone as he looks at Sansa. "May I hold him?" 

She nods eagerly, a burst of giddy laughter falling from her lips as she picks her son up and hands him to his Father. Oberyn handles him with expertise, nestling him in the crook of his arms and within a minute he has fallen asleep, one hand clutched around one of his Father's thumbs. 

"What's his name?" Oberyn breathes.

"Harlon." Sansa whispers. "For the Stark King that defeated House Bolton." 

Her lover's eyes meet hers. "A wise choice indeed. Well, with a Princess of the North as his Mother and a Prince of Dorne as his Father our child is sure to be written down in history as a great." 

"He shall be King of the North." Sansa says resolutely, chin tilting upwards. "If you would help."

"My darling," When they kiss, Sansa fears she will melt from his gentle lips caressing hers. She exhales with a sigh as Oberyn pulls back and gazes fondly into her eyes, one thumb stroking her cheek. "I would be honoured." 


End file.
